Second Star to the Right
by webbedfeet
Summary: The British National Space Centre makes a last-ditched effort to get more budget by putting England in space, courtesy of NASA and America, the latter of which has an agenda of his own. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer : None of the characters belong to me. Any similarities to real people and organizations (and by God, there are similarities) are...coincidental. In the sense that a movie about George Bush is coincidental, except I'm not even pretending to be accurate to personal histories here. My apologies to real people who, I am sure, are awesome.

Written for the usxuk livejournal community ficathon prompt : America takes England on a NASA mission.

**Chapter 1**

It was a dark and stormy day. Typical Wiltshire weather for the season, the men supposed, but it did nothing to brighten up the glooms palpably hanging around the conference room like a fog. Twelve of them were seated around the table, business-suited and rather frayed around the edges, their faces reflecting the weather rather perfectly.

"I assume you have all seen our budget report, gentlemen," the man at head of the table started. His name tag identified him as 'Director General, BNSC'. "We've had the weekend to dwell upon the issue. Now it's time to discuss what we should do with this bloody situation."

The budget report, represented by a bright red arrow at the front of the room, showed a plummeting curve steep enough to break the gravitational constant. Most of the men looked at it and groaned, while some wiped beads of sweat off with a sleeve.

Only one of them remained relatively calm, a man whose name tag stated was the Director of Space Science. He raised up a hand.

"May I have a few words?"

The Director General raised an eyebrow. Space Science was, naturally, the hardest hit. The national investment in human space flight had always been rather dismal. "Of course, Parker. You have ideas?"

"It occurs to me that our problem is less one of science than one of publicity," Parker said. "And now, before you say 'no shit, Einstein', if you'll pardon the language, we have a plan for that. One of them would be to start with the schools and start brainwashing the kids into spacemen, but that wouldn't do. Not for a few generations, and we'd be lagging behind France by then. We _are_ lagging behind France. No. We need drastic measures to get the public attention back from reality TV or whatever they do these days."

"My wife likes the reality shows," the Director General said without much conviction. "And short of finding another superpower to start an arms race with America, what do you propose we do just to get that? The media's eager to blast anything and everything these days, and the public couldn't care less if you're not Britney Spears."

Or Manchester United, somebody muttered, but they pretended he didn't.

Parker wagged a finger. It was, he announced, the plan to end all plans.

"This is war, gentlemen," he was reported to have said, "and I propose we attack this country right where it counts."

* * *

Mankind would eventually need laws for bothering people with stupidity, England decided, staring at his American counterpart with obvious irritation. He knew the boy was a git and had known it for some time, honestly, he wasn't in that much of a denial, but there had to be a limit to certain things. Like how much you can spend your national budget for personal pursuits, and how much you can drag otherwise busy people into whatever your bloody whims fancied.

"Come on, England, this isn't my idea. It's a request from your own space agency," America said, smiling winsomely in a way that occasionally made him want to kick his face in, or at least pull a few teeth out (not that he'd actually do it, but he certainly had had bouts of criminal intent). "They want you to do it and your boss wants me to tag along for company. You can even use one of your favorite phases! What is it, 'I'm not doing this for you, it's all for me, myself and I'? See? It's not that hard."

Ah. The BNSC. Bloody gits, too. And they wonder why they never get much funding.

"This is a waste of time," he said, trying to be as slow, deliberate-hell, _menacing_-as possible. "Waste of time and colossal waste of money. I don't know if you have secret stacks of gold to pay for these things-"

"The mission's scheduled with or without us anyway. Besides, the value of gold is-"

"-but I don't," England finished. "Look, America. We're in an economic crisis. Possibly the biggest one the world in general has seen in decades, you and I are both _sick_-" Indeed, America was wasting a significant amount of tissue papers on his nose. _England's_ office tissue papers. "-your market is going haywire and my _banks_, for God's sake, have gone nuts. Then you barged into my office and chased away my entire staff because you said you have a brilliant idea, and it's 'let's go sightseeing in space'. Sorry, but I'm not going to pat your head and say 'well done, my boy, have a biscuit!'"

"It's a NASA mission, you know, not an industry rocket."

"I would've thrown you out already if it's the industry, you idiot. I do not relish the thought of going to Russia for the takeoff." He snorted. "The point is, there's no point to it. We don't belong in space, and we don't do whatever the astronauts do. They can't study our data, we can't do anything worthwhile, they can't even know who we bloody are. Let the original astronauts your agency planned for do the thing, and don't use the whole 'but your agency came up with it' excuse. All you have to do is to say 'no'."

And America should have said 'no'. England didn't have the money for it, and neither did he. America was down with a cold, too-and, and he should just let the science programs do what they do and focus on getting _better_, not this bucketload of nonsense.

America didn't reply. He stopped swinging his legs around from his position on England's desk, eyes turned to the linoleum. He looked thoughtful, even a little sad, and for a second the part of him that used to love a laughing, shining, blonde-haired boy twisted itself in his gut, just because America doesn't do _that_ and something in him couldn't bear the thought of seeing him that way still. And there was something, another thing, that refused to bear this silence for reasons that he didn't want to think about.

"America-"

"It's not that bad an idea."

America looked up, then, and England's breath caught, if only because his eyes had a glitter he hadn't seen in the past two hundred years. It was neither harsh nor soft, neither demanding nor indignant but a compromise between all four and in another history, another world, he might have admired and despised that look along with everything else America does. In this world, the way things had been, it merely had the power to deprive him of words.

"I've been wanting to go out there for some time, ever since we sent Armstrong to the moon," he said, following a long, exaggerated sigh. "It's been forty years since then. Do you think I wouldn't have gone a dozen times already, if I'm as much of a brat as you obviously think I am?"

He slid down from the desk and started to make for the door, not without anger but simmering with...disappointment? Resentment? The boy did not look down, did not look at England. His gaze was locked forward at something straight ahead, beyond the door. Beyond all the doors and hills and oceans.

And as he passed England, he gave him a little nod. "Sorry for fraying your nerves, old man. Forget I asked."

If England could only find his voice-but even if he did, he wasn't sure he'd know what to do with it anyway.

It was about five minutes after America left that he managed to sigh, with a mixture of guilt and exasperation, and returned to his desk. There wasn't anything new to this whole exchange, no. They had been like this for the past few decades-an idea from one side wouldn't go over so well with the other, they would have a yelling match, someone would leave. Sometimes it was like that in meetings, too, but they tried to keep it to a minimum, then, and there would be somebody else to complain about anyway.

Fuck that stupid America.

And it was about fifteen minutes after he'd set the day's documents before him and proceeded to get absolutely no work done that he noticed America's briefcase still resting at the foot of his desk. It was filled with NASA documents. Papers on flight trainings. The program schedule. Proposals. Some had notes scribbled in and others had 'top secret' stamped on them; there was even a little map of stars. Not all of the disgusting pile of paperwork required for this project, most certainly, but America seemed to have brought with him everything England might find even slightly interesting. And, true enough, it was a rather spare plan, a regular supply delivery to the International Space Station. The world would not miss much-or lose much-whether Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones went along as the invisible crew or not.

England stared at the documents for a moment. Fuck that stupid America indeed. If he's sick then he should focus on what's right in front of him, keep his feet on the ground, deal with the matter as it comes. He had no right to drag him into it. He had no right to do these things, arrange all these so enthusiastically while he's losing his grip on-and yes, England might be frank about it-while he's losing his grip on the legacy of his century. If space was the future, then bugger the future and keep the wolves at bay. If space was the glorious past, well, America had always said the past is all that England sees.

Something bitter pulled at the back of his throat and he didn't know whether to feel tired or angry. Possibly a mix of the two. The things that he sees. The things that he does. The things that he did. He wouldn't admit to bitterness, no, and he wouldn't admit to arrogance. Perhaps indignation might do. Good old-fashioned indignation. He could settle for indignation, then fury, and then he could, maybe.

England pushed the pile of loan documents and bank policies to one side and began to read.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

England used to keep a pet hound, way back when fox hunting was not considered a highly dirty word by red-blooded people everywhere. It was a rather cute little black mutt (intensive dog breeding had not catch on yet) that had a particular way of lolling its tongue and whimpering softly while waiting for his table scraps, and another peculiar way still of looking absurdly happy when scraps actually were to be had. In other words, a way of making sure its master _would_ fold and doing a facial victory dance when he did. Not that he recognized it as such back then, no, not on those terms.

Not until today.

Seated in a plastic chair by the coffee table, America had on his face an expression that disturbingly reminded him of the dog and simultaneously made him want to grab his briefcase and run for the hills. And America didn't even have the excuse of being a loyal Man's Best Friend.

England closed his eyes and suppressed what would have been a long, long sigh.

"I believe we got this over a few minutes ago, Mr. Jones," he said, keeping his tone conversationally matter-of-fact. "There is no point to staring at me, and really, you should be more considerate toward your officers."

All three of said officers- - -namely the shuttle pilot and two mission specialists, according to their name tags- - -were paying an obscene amount of attention to the coffee machine, an act with which England sympathized. After all, they had been put into a rather awkward situation by their government, and he knew he'd have more or less the same reaction if he was human and was going to share very cramped quarters with a quasi-hostile foreign dignitary and a fucking smug bastard who might as well have been from the CIA. And he briefly wondered what cover story his boss managed to get him.

The fucking smug bastard was, for his part, trying desperately to be completely full of himself. He grinned from ear to ear, and the shade of blue in his eyes all but said _I knew you'd fold eventually_ (and if England recognized that grin in some other blonde-haired boy who had a habit of getting everything he wanted, he wisely told his brain to shut up and keep its opinions to itself), although all he said was, "Sorry, I just didn't think you would be coming after all."

Neither did I, England started to say, but then clamped his mouth down and settled on a level stare. He didn't plan to, honestly, at least not after reading through America's entire briefcase. But that weekend, after sending the whole file back with a diplomat going to D.C., he went around London for further consultations with Scotch whiskey and, remembering how America looked the moment he left, decided that he would.

He told himself that it still wasn't his idea. And opting for tactful delays in negotiations- - -until now, in fact- - -instead of calling back right then like a wishy-washy twerp helped his conscience a bit.

"You should've called before," America said, as if knowing exactly what he was thinking. "The shuttle's not a bus, you know, or an airplane. There's a ton of preparations to do to make sure she'll fit each mission, especially since she's getting quite old."

His face appeared strangely flushed as he said those words, his grin replaced by what appeared to be half a pout and half lines of worry. England raised an eyebrow.

"Are you telling me that all seats are taken and I've missed my ticket? Well then- - -"

"No!" the boy almost shouted, which sent the crew tumbling out of the room and muttering something under their breaths. "It's just that, well, we could've-" He stopped, and then after looking eminently uncomfortable with his own sentence, gave him a crooked smile and restarted on a very different topic.

"And have you ever done any training? My God, England, your agency is in really bad shape if you figure you can walk in here a week before launch and think it'll work. But since you've had this unexpected change of heart and I'm a generous hero, I could whip something up for you and as we can't be bothering the astronauts this close to launch, I'll- - -"

"Stop. Stop." England held up a hand. "Stop running away with your assumptions the moment I shut my mouth. What kind of idiot did you take me for? Of course I had training- - -"

"Where! You only told us you'd be coming today!"

"- - -with Ludwig and the ESA, if you could also let me finish my sentences without interruption. Yes. Thank you." Germany also just wouldn't shut up about how he was cutting corners on every turn, but was it his fault that somebody set his launch window just two months away?

"The...ESA?" America said, staring at him as if he was a deer and England was a headlight. England rolled his eyes.

"We in Europe have our own agency, you know-" although France never stopped harping on his own lack of monetary conviction to the cause "- - -and while it's not as well-equipped or as famous as this here place, it doesn't entirely lack in facilities. I believe it's got parts up in space station whatsisname, but you might remember it better than me."

"The ISS," he quickly replied. "But I thought you aren't very interested in them. I mean, isn't its main headquarters in _France_? I thought you would- - -but nevermind." That smile again. "Well. I'm relieved to know that you've done some training. That way I won't have to worry about you floating into a bulkhead, that'll be a real bother for the crew!"

"Look, you idiot- - -"

"But what brought on this change of heart?" America asked, blithely ignoring his protest. "I was under the impression that all of this is a frivolous waste of time and money, when we first talked. If you've thought otherwise- - -and went so far as to training with the EPA or whatever it's called- - -why?"

And then America, being the enormous git that he was, gave him a truly brilliant, nearly devilish smile that almost brought him back to the time they'd shipwrecked together all over again. "And why do you think you could wait a month and a half to get back to me, really? I could've written you off the plan entirely. It'd be embarrassing. For you. Why, England? Do tell me."

Because I'm still a bloody idiot, because I hate to think that you could, because I know you wouldn't. All the answers and yet other answers still came to his throat and camped there, refusing to move, because he wouldn't admit how much all these still meant, because the last time he thought he knew anything about what America would do was two hundred years ago and that had turned out so _well._

Instead of a respectable answer, then, all he managed to come up with was a feeble "You'd do the same thing if you have the BNSC harassing you for an answer every two days. Damn persistent, those prats."

In truth, the BNSC hadn't. And while England was off studying what America was currently doing in human space travel, it even announced newfangled reusable spacecraft projects and an actual British astronaut. He had the distinct impression that they were getting what they wanted out of him by this plan, and the thought that his inability to give up on things he should've given up might have given those money-swindling fools what they wanted left an irritating taste in his mouth.

America didn't seem very convinced with his answer, either, as he thought he could see a flicker of dissatisfaction passing on his face. He didn't bother to explain himself, however, as America had a big enough ego without thinking that England's part of the world _also_ revolved around him.

Right. As if he didn't think that already. Git.

"So do you still have room for me or not?" he asked, trying to bring the conversation away from the topic. "It's been some time since we talked, and I understand that the schedule was tight enough already as it was. I seem to hear that the offer still stands, however."

America looked at him like he had just said the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

"Of course it does. Heroes don't go back on their words," he said. "It's going to be a bit hard on the crew since they've never worked with you before- - -really, England, and you say I should be more considerate- - -but we do have space for you. NASA's made preparations for one extra crew member."

"Bloody generous of them, then." England snorted while his younger counterpart hastily added,

"It's standard procedures. Have to plan for every contingency, NASA. Did I tell you about the one time we kinda suspected our pilot may have the measles?"

"Yeah, you were rambling about how Russia was going to get on your case. And made a movie about it ten years later." He remembered how America never quite shut up about it while pressing him into an advance screening, like he usually did with any sordid Hollywood nonsense that got him excited. It was a pretty good movie.

"You liked that movie," America said, looking rather happy. "Your people even gave it some awards."

"The British people working on it were very good," he answered, aware that he sounded rather distracted while watching the changes on America's face. He turned the force of his attention to the coffee machine. The abominable coffee machine.

They spent several moments in the companionable silence shared by nations who'd just delivered ultimatums to each other, and England was rather appreciating the nostalgic atmosphere when America (who'd never really stopped staring creepily at him) suddenly cleared his throat.

"Anyway," America said, sounding a bit awkward. "Where's the rest of your luggage? We still have a week until launch, and I'd sooner go bankrupt than believe you haven't packed any clothes."

It was his turn to stare at America like he was completely daft.

"At the hotel, you twit," he answered, wondering if he'd ever dropped America on his head as a child and privately chiding himself for forgetting about it. "If you thought I would subject my private belongings-and very sensitive national documents, I should remind you- - -to the whims of your increasingly mad search procedures, you're out of your mind and I have to wonder why you haven't gone bankrupt already."

America gave him a look. "You're supposed to stay here until the launch," he said, in a very matter-of-fact tone. "I won't tell you to cancel your reservations, but really, it's painfully obvious that you're supposed to stay with us and get properly briefed."

"And be at the beck, call and mercy of your agency?" He gave America a look in return. "I would much rather have the hotel. At least I can call Gordon if something comes up and be at least somewhat sure that my lines won't be tapped, and I maintain that any briefing that takes more than a day is a badly-written meeting."

"For God's sake, England," America muttered. "Are you being difficult on purpose?"

Normally, this kind of reaction from America would have put him into a softer, bewildered state where every indignation suddenly didn't seem to matter so much anymore. This time, however, things were a bit different.

"Yes," answered England, who had long decided that being an insufferable prat on occasion was the only way he could say yes to this with some shred of dignity left. "Because I'm doing this for me, myself, and I, and you agreed to it. You _suggested_ all this is for me," he slowly spun the half-lie. "And because there's a little word called _indulge_ that people commonly use when they're doing things for other people, I thought you would, you know, like it try it out. Not to mention," and here England allowed himself a little reconciliatory grin. "I kind of wanted to watch _you_ squirm, for a change."

_I'm tired of making compromises for your moods, I'm tired of fighting for it and I have the right to make sure, after all we've gone through. What about you, America? What else would you have done with your only chance to make sure again?_

He thought all of that translated into plain English pretty well, in fact.

For what seemed like the countless time that day, America stared at him. Then he broke into a slow, uncertain and rather sheepish smile.

"Well," he said. "I suppose I can _try_. I'll tell my people to leave your things and your telephone calls alone, you have my word for it. But you _really_ have to stay here, England. You missed enough of the program already."

England gave it a few moment's thoughts.

"I insist, America, that I would much prefer the hotel to any accommodation you may provide me," he said, deciding to concede a little ground and call it a strategic victory. He _did_ feel a little bad for the astronauts, after all (and definitely not because America was making a face). "I might be persuaded to reconsider, however, it you'll agree to eating my scones without complaint for the rest of my stay."

Watching America cringe for a change brought relief to his heart, indeed.

* * *

England was unexpectedly good at manuevering his way around tight spaces. He propelled himself around the closed bulkheads, airlocks, and tubings like he'd been doing this for a hundred years, finding handholds on walls and ceilings with a surprising amount of grace. Either the European Astronaut Center training was very, very good or he was, somehow, a natural.

_Which should be a good thing_, America thought. He had been half-worried about how England was going to fare in the unapologetically cramped confines of the crew compartments, especially with the microgravity, and he knew that NASA (and consequentially, his boss) would have his head if his reassurances that Mr. Kirkland was properly trained were not met. He'd spent months wheedling them that leaving one spot in the roster 'open for revision' was a good idea, and he should be happy that everything worked out fine.

And honestly, he couldn't help feeling a little miffed.

England shouldn't be so good at this.

And because England had also somehow gained a preternatural enhancement in his ability to detect stares (so unfair : America could've used this newfound sensitivity at _many_ points in their lives), he'd turned from his scrutiny of the galley oven to meet America's eyes.

"Jones?" he said, a little surprise in his voice. Good. "Aren't you supposed to be on the upper deck with the commander?"

"It's 'flight deck'," America corrected, propelling himself down into the galley as well. He didn't care much for being called _Jones_, it didn't roll of England's tongue as well as _America_, but it couldn't be helped. "I wasn't supposed to be up there, actually, not until they've finished docking with the space station. But I can't help wanting to take a sneak peek at the window." He gave England a look. "And what're you doing down here? Aren't you the least bit interested?"

England shrugged.

"Not if I'm going to get into the way, no, especially since us being here means they have fewer people who really knows what they're doing." He flashed an apologetic look at the other mission specialist in the room, a retired army colonel, who returned an awkward smile. "There's plenty to look at down here, and don't tell me they don't have it cramped enough in the flight deck already without me scurrying around."

America frowned. England was obviously trying to make him feel like a brat again here, which was just not _on_. God knows what was wrong with him lately, but England being on the _Discovery_ at all should mean that he _wanted_ to see something, too, shouldn't it?

"You're awful comfortable with the cramp, though," he pointed out. _More comfortable than you should be._

"You've never been on a frigate, obviously," England laughed, and America felt both unsettled and irritated at the same time, and concentrated on noting the way his eyes laughed with him. "I know you've seen some, so here's a tip : those things look like they're spacey, Jones, but the lower decks were more crowded than the Empire State elevator at rush hour. No, this is pretty comfy by my standards. At least you're not sharing space with three cows."

He cast a quick glance over the ex-colonel, but he seemed to be listening politely with no hint of surprise. Perhaps he had interpreted it as Mr. Kirkland being overly fascinated by maritime relics, but that was still a pretty close call.

There was no such thing as a private conversation on a tiny deck, however.

"I guess you'd be fine with the sleeping arrangements, then," America said, steering the conversation back to the setting at hand. The last thing he wanted England to do was to reminisce about his glory days of beating France into a pulp. "We don't have sleep stations on this one, so it's sleeping bags. Did they tell you that in Cologne?"

"They did. And the people at Kennedy, too. Thrice."

"Oh." He'd been too dizzy with constant attacks of English scones to remember much of their last weeks at the Kennedy Space Center. England went through further briefings and crash-course training, probably, if only because some of his curses still rang faintly in America's mind.

Then he realized something horrible. England had been eyeing the galley oven...

"Who's first on the cooking roll?"

* * *

Their first meal in space was, fortunately, not prepared by England, and the mission commander had laughed when America shared his worries.

"Don't worry, Alfred. You've given us better instruction than to _include_ Mr. Kirkland in the cooking roster," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I hope you'll accept my apologies, but fire is a _very_ hazardous thing in space."

"Told you those were burnt," America said, grinning brightly. England glared at him and poked at his chicken. Fair was fair, he thought. He had no desire to martyr his stomach (although he could possibly call off the launch via comprehensive food poisoning) and gave out samples to the rest of the crew, who should share his suffering. It was not really because he didn't want England to give them out to other people himself. Not really.

"You could prepare the desserts," the army colonel suggested, obviously feeling needlessly sorry for England. "They just need to be broken out of the packets. Mayonnaise, Jones?"

"No, thank you. Have we finished moving the racks out to the ISS?"

"If you mean the Lightweight Multi-Purpose Experiment Support Structure, no. Nicole's gone to the station and brought the _Leonardo_ in, but we haven't actually gone there and moved the thing yet," answered another mission specialist, the one who came from Texas. America suddenly missed his glasses a great deal, even though he could see well enough without them. "Figured we'd like to eat first."

"Would it be all right if Arthur and I go up to the observation window, then?" he asked. England silently mouthed _Kirkland_, but otherwise remained focused on his chicken.

He suddenly felt nervous for some reason.

The commander nodded. "Sure. Take your time, the view deserves it. We've got a few other preparations to make before moving the racks over there, anyway- - -"

"_Lightweight Multi-Purpose Experiment Support Structure."_

"- - -so enjoy the window seat. They've got better views in the ISS, I'm sure, but it's getting a bit crowded over there. Someone will call you when we need to go aft."

"Thank you," America said, aware that he was grinning in an abrupt mood shift that he told himself did _not_ belong to a teenager, dammit.

He turned to England. "So, shall we?"

His former older brother, surprisingly, gave him a bleak look. "All right."

Leading England away from the crew cabin, almost dragging him by the arm for all his sluggishness (a marked contrast from his earlier grace, although America's brain told him to ignore this), they arrived at the deserted flight deck. Blinking lights peacefully flooded the cockpit space as the _Discovery_'s avionics constantly reported current conditions, and he found it hard to imagine that this tiny compartment was the frontlines for the grueling launch just a few hours ago.

"Quiet," England muttered, and America immediately bristled. He hadn't even said _anything_- - -

"Not you, prat. I mean the deck."

Oh.

"Thanks for mentioning the obvious," he said, then grinned to show that he didn't mean anything before England started to make a fuss. England, for his part, snorted.

Beyond the instrumentations, divided up by the frames of the six mirrors, the Earth shone before them. Blue and beautiful. Clouds swirled above the oceans, white, grey, silhouetted, glowing, their shapes brought out by the sun. Light danced across whole miles of the waves. And what little they saw of the continents were laid out, miraculously, like the Mercator maps, like seeing a mirror, the frayed edges of everything looking almost comical, the clarity of it all lovely. At the end, the curvature of the Earth shone in its most brilliant blue as the vast blackness of space claimed back its territory dotted in bright but motionless stars. Stars that flickered and shivered like living things from darkened hilltops, now arrayed together like a vast and ancient tapestry.

It was beautiful when he first came up to see it, in the chaos of docking with the ISS. It was beautiful and different now.

"Let's go to the observation window, England," he whispered. "That's where they took all the pictures, and we don't have to worry as much about touching the self-destruct button."

That was when he saw England's face for the first time.

Blue light from the instrumentation and the Earth bathed his face, devoid of expression. His bright green eyes were equally blank, with neither the annoyed fire America often saw and often sparked, nor happiness, nor...that one thing he had wanted to see so, so much, that one glimmer of wonderment that he knew could light up England's face like the sun- - -there was nothing in there at all but, perhaps, an ancient tiredness that he'd seen once and never wanted to see again.

"England?"

Then England turned and gave him a pretty good smile, as far as fake ones went. "Ah. Yes. Sorry. I was a little bit taken in by the view. Where's this window you mentioned?"

_You shouldn't have said yes to this whole stupid idea_, England's words echoed in his mind and he forced down a gulp. England was just being a worry wart about their cold spells, like always, and being miserly about his budget...but had there been something else...

"Over here," he managed to croak, propelling himself up to the ceiling. The window was small and not as panoramic, but it afforded a better angle to view the curves of the Earth vanishing into blackness.

England moved in next to him, close enough that he could smell the shampoo in his hair, see the veins in the back of his ears. In the almost gravityless space of near Earth orbit, their height difference ceased to exist and his eyes were on the same level as America's eyes, his lips on the same level as America's lips. America had eagerly anticipated this moment, waited for it, thought about it, knew his heart would race and his breath would catch...and it did, but not for the right reasons.

"Beautiful," England whispered, but his eyes and face were still carefully blank. "Gives you a different perspective on things, doesn't it?"

"It does," he said, though part of his mind wanted to shout, _But you don't mean any of it, I don't know why you're acting like this but you don't mean a word of what you're saying._

"It's quite amazing how you managed to get up here," England continued, regardless of or maybe due to his answer. "I guess that whole nasty business with Russia is worth something, after all. Not that I haven't heard about it before, mind, I wasn't living in a hole, but it's quite different when you look at it like this. I can even see you, down there."

America hoped, almost fervently, that somewhere in this conversation lies the reason why England suddenly looked like he'd lost his soul the moment they came into the cockpit. "And what do I look like?"

"You're huge," England shook his head. "And you look nothing like what I remember, though I suppose it matches with the maps. As I said, it's quite amazing." Then he snorted, and the blankness in his face melted, becoming a mildly amused smirk he used to know so well. "It's a pity the window is so small. If it's a little bigger, it might've looked a little less like pasting a photograph onto a porthole."

"Pasting a- - -"

"I don't mean it like that," England said hastily. "It is beautiful, Alfred. I'm grateful that you're still dragging me out to see it. We can stay here for a couple more minutes, if you want."

Suddenly, he realized where things started to go wrong. England probably thought he was being subtle about it, too.

"No, it's fine. Let's go down and see what everyone's doing," America said.

It was was time for drastic measures.

* * *

"We," America announced. "Are going out for a walk."

If long looks could be measured in miles, England's would have reached the moon and came back for a second loop. Of course, he'd gotten too used to England's long looks to care. They were much better than blank, expressionless faces. By far.

"I thought you were helping them move the space racket or whatever it's called to the space station," England said, glancing around the crew cabin with what looked like annoyance. Most of the astronauts were in the aft section at the moment, except England (who wouldn't know what he was doing) and America (who excused himself on grounds that he wouldn't know either), giving them, for once, a modicum of privacy. At least America didn't think sound could travel through the vacuum in the payload bay.

"I'm not."

"Obviously," he sighed. "And if by 'we' you mean 'me and the English bloke lounging around in the cabin', I ought to remind you that there're no parks outside, no ducks to feed, and no charming sidewalk cafes."

"There's infinity," America said, noticing the way England visibly cringed at the suggestion and filed it away in his mind. And did parks, ducks and cafes constitute England's ideal walk? He'd have to find out. "There're a few EVA suits on board and I propose we take them out for a spin. See what it's really like. It won't be much of a seaside trip without going to the beach, so to speak."

England sighed again and put down his manual of liquid waste disposal. He was still not looking him in the eye, naturally, but he wouldn't just cut off the conversation, at least. "The last time you said we'd 'take it out for a spin' you flew my airplane right through a barn, you git. And I _knew_ how to fly. I don't know jack about how to traipsing around _infinity_ without tripping over my ankles."

America swallowed down _That's why I said you should've trained with us_, since a protracted argument was the last thing he needed right now. Instead, he said, "I've got some training and I can show you how. We're only going out for a look and we'll be tethered. It's not going to be much more difficult than walking around in a fish tank."

"If it is, then I wonder why the training program normally lasted years," England pointed out. "We're not out here to- - -"

"We are here," America cut him off in a voice that he hoped would brook no argument. "To be impossibly _impressed_ by space. And since I'm not that impressed yet- - -"

"Don't kid me, you were up to your nose in- - -"

"- - -and you aren't either, judging from the porthole comment, I am going out there and you'd better come with me, too." He drew a deep breath and threw out the carrot and the stick. "Come on, England. You'll pick it up fast enough, I know you can. And you don't want to go back and have France teasing you forever about being _scared_ of space, right?"

England bristled. "I am not _scared_ of space, you nitwit. I'm just concerned about regulations, unlike some people. This isn't something you do on a whim."

"I've talked to the commander, and he says yes," America said, watching as England's eyes grew to the size of saucers. Well. He didn't say yes until a little bit of rank was pulled and explanations were given, but nobody needed to hear that. "I don't do things on a whim, England. Not as much as you think."

At least not when it concerns you.

But he didn't say that out loud.

Something passed on England's face at that moment, something so fleeting it would've gone unnoticed if he wasn't America and this this wasn't England and they didn't cross the gulf of centuries together. And when his face settled again into that blank expressionlessness, America knew that he was right.

England's problem was simple.

"I don't know why you keep pushing me to do all this," he whispered. "You've got your excuse for a space mission, you've got me up here. If you want your crazy spacewalk, then go do it, you don't _need_ me."

England's problem had always been simple.

"I do," America said, gently, like it contained all the finality of the words. "Because I told the BNSC that you _will_ come back interested, so your space program might actually go somewhere, and a hero keeps his word. Because I made a _promise."_

_Come with me, England. Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. _

"I should've known better than to give those bloody gits _any_ budget at all," England said, the corners of his mouth curving up in a crooked, sardonic smile, but he offered no more protests.

Getting into the spacesuits themselves proved harder than expected. America figured they could get away without spending thirty minutes acclimatizing their lungs, because they didn't work exactly like humans, anyway, and what England didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Still, the bulky things was still a hassle to put on and he had to spend some time showing England how to do it, how to strap on the various parts, attach the umbilical, make sure nothing leaked. And England, England who had gone through everything and been in every kind of situation half a millenia before America was even born, finally looked a little bewildered, a little like he'd never done something like this before.

America couldn't help but smile at that.

* * *

England was sure he'd uttered a thousand curses just putting on the space suit. The bloody idiot who designed it was obviously a sadist adamant on dividing it into as many parts as possible. Tie this strap, put this on, attach this. The sheer number of required steps made his head swim, and even if one could say it wasn't that much more complicated than putting on a set of full plate armour, at least the armourers had the decency to _not_ abbreviate everything. And in the thirteenth century, he didn't have America standing next to him and grinning like a starry-eyed fool.

All right, so maybe that last part wasn't so bad. It was just him being excited by the upcoming stupidity spacewalk, but that was also one of those expressions England hadn't seen in a long, long time.

He could do a lot for it.

The grin (which was surely a response to his cluelessness and embarrassment), however, gave him the urge to punch America into the next millenium and then crawl away somewhere to die, which he was sure was not a good idea considering where they were.

The git still kept on doing it. Like how he kept on insisting they go do completely outrageous things, starting with barnstorming and getting progressively worse and worse. And if America thought he believed the whole 'it was not a whim' line for one moment, he'd have another think coming.

"Any leaks?" America asked, his voice cracking over the radio. Apparently the git had told the mission commander (poor man) to maintain strict radio silence until they were back, to give them some kind of privacy. England wanted to ask what privacy would matter if they suddenly burst into balls of fire, but on the other hand he was quite grateful. The spaceship reminded him a little of his early days on the sea, climbing ropes weightlessly and living in quarters too tight to have a real conversation in.

The suit didn't have any leaks, so he shook his head no.

Or at least tried to.

America laughed. "That's all right," he said after the third attempt. "I know what you mean, anyway. Pretty difficult to move in, aren't they?"

"Try 'ungodly fucking hard' instead of 'difficult' and I'd agree," England muttered. He'd figured the same just by the reputation space suits had garnered, but never thought it'd be so bad. The lack of gravity possibly made it worse and America laughing at him _again_ didn't particularly help. The bloody git and his whims, and it had to be whims, because what else could it be except the alternative he didn't like thinking about?

The shaded helmet made it difficult to see America's face clearly, but he was obviously grinning.

"Well then, shall we?" he said, holding out a hand.

England grunted, and very, very very grudgingly took it before the airlock door opened and the world bursted in brilliant black, white and blue.

The black was the infinity of space, dotted by glowing white stars. Stars that were arranged differently than he knew from the darkened hills, stars shining cold and motionless like dead strangers. The white was the glare of the sun on the space station's solar panels, bright and blinding, and the clouds that swirled above the blue oceans, clouds that neither blocked the sun nor rained on the woods but moved like a tapestry with a mind of its own. And the seas, of course, the seas that once seemed so infinite, so full of promise, looked just as plain a swab of blue as it did at that observation window.

He took a deep breath, oxygen supply be damned.

The curve of continents appeared from the edges of the clouds, like a sadly mangled jigsaw puzzle, and he of course recognized all of them. He _mapped_ them, made sea charts, stole maps from the French and the Dutch, sent out the goddamned Royal Society to explore all the corners of the Earth. And the pictures he painted with ink and printing presses were eerily like this, even if all the colours were wrong : Africa had never been painted red except on obsolete war maps showing his territories, India was made in vivid swirls instead of plain green and brown, but all their shapes were right. He knew because he had sailed by all of them and warred and killed, if not in person then in writing, if not in writing then in spirit, which was just as good as being there himself. And of course there was the North American continent, a plain, old, stupidly huge piece of land, the one he knew completely and not at all. Everything he'd seen and done in one unchanging canvas that showed how none of it meant very much. He could not even see himself in it. He was too small and covered in too many clouds.

For a few seconds, England squeezed his eyes shut. Of course this was still his world, everything was just as it was, they were always the same shapes they always were. This was the world, it was not possible to lose things one never had in the first place, even if that was his _place_ in it. He was thinking too much and being too melodramatic.

"Wow," America's voice came over the radio, almost breathless. "We're so _tiny_, England. Isn't it just amazing?"

_Except you're half a fucking continent with enough power to be showing off all this_, his brain immediately spat out, but England bit it back and gritted his teeth. Damn that America for knowing exactly what he was thinking.

All he said in reply was, "Yeah, I suppose we are. Didn't I say that back in the shuttle?"

"You did, but you didn't sound very convinced," America said happily. "Let's take a step outside. I can't wait to see what it'd feel like to be really out _there_, you know, surrounded by it all. It's bound to be more impressive for you, too."

"America, I'm not sure if- - -"

America's snort carried loud and clear through the radio. "Aww, come on. You'll be fine as long as you don't let go of my hand. We'll be back to the shuttle and you'll be asking for seconds before you know it."

England had the sickening sense that if he stepped out of the shuttle with America, he'd no longer be able to enjoy what he could of this trip (and he did enjoyed it, the launch, the orbit, the feeling of being as light as a feather, the smile on America's face) and keep his thoughts to the back of his head. But there was a gentle tug on his hand, or perhaps a strong one that he just couldn't feel through all the insulation, and because he knew America wanted to go and America would go with or without him, he went.

It was even worse outside. Without solid ground beneath his feet, without the walls of the airlock providing some sort of anchor, he felt truly small. Insignificant. The world, that unchanging map and torn-up jigsaw puzzle, loomed before him like an impossible giant that stretched to all the corners of his horizon. And the blackness that lay behind their tiny spaceship made him feel like he was walking in the forest primeval, all over again, with nothing but a bow and arrows and his own fear of the vast world.

"Incredible," America breathed. "This feels so different."

"No doubt," England answered dryly. He wished he was back inside already.

"It's like we're flying- - -or maybe swimming's more like it," America continued, the excitement palpable in his voice. "And there's only us...it's like, oh, I know there are others, but it's...just you and me right now. It's amazing." And he repeated, again with a sense of awe, "We're so small, England."

And that, he would reflect later, was probably the last straw.

"Must you rub that in?" England snapped, tired, sick, and wanting all of this to end and go back to being America's _whims_ instead of him having something to prove. And he immediately wanted to hang himself for it.

He could see America turning to him, as sluggish as a slow motion film, probably thanks to the damned suits. And even through the the shaded helmets he could see America's frown, his confusion, his contempt, and England couldn't help but think, _Dammit, dammit, this has been a rotten idea, I should never have agreed, I've kept those words for so long, I've kept it all these decades_, and he could feel, again, that old seething bitter thing rising at the back of his throat.

"England?" America's voice came over the radio, but it didn't carry the curiousity of a question. Rather, it had the creeping finality of a conclusion he'd just realized.

England closed his eyes. He had agreed to come here because he couldn't stand the idea the things he'd just cobbled up again, losing the pretension of being needed, somehow, by this stranger who took his world away from him. The stranger who took every opportunity he could to show how much he owned and how much England lost, in that sickening blue tapestry spinning by, who was the only way he could pretend there was something left of the little boy with blue eyes and shining hair still.

He told himself it was just America's whims, that he was just being a brat, just to keep what little bridges he'd mended together. And now he'd knocked them down and England found this ironic and knew it wouldn't matter much anymore, and when he spoke again it was like listening to somebody else's voice.

"What I mean to say is I know I'm a dingy little island with a voice barely loud enough to carry across the channel. I already said so and there's no need to repeat it and no need for this pathetic 'oh me too' equality shit, we know what you are and how it's a bunch of bollocks," he said. He could feel his heart racing and his brain ringing klaxons, but clamped them both down as hard as he could. If it was falling apart, it was falling apart, and at least he wouldn't have to pretend, he could be cold and cordial. Cold and cordial and indignant. When he didn't want to look at something, indignation would do.

England took in a deep breath. "Tell me when you're done sightseeing, America. I'll go back whenever you do, and I'll be putting a good word in with the BNSC so you don't have to worry about your bloody promise."

"Is that really what you think?" America asked, his voice strangely low.

"Does it matter what I think? I'm still here."

He was tired. He wanted nothing more than his bed, a few cups of tea, and for this conversation to be over with.

America didn't seem to agree, however. He was silent for a few moments, then, sighing, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'I knew it'.

Oh, _wonderful_. Not only was America a git, he was a git doing things he already knew were ill-favoured. England would've celebrated the genius of his child-rearing techniques if he wasn't feeling like someone just dropped a grand piano on his foot.

Then America let go of his hand.

For a second, England panicked. He was suddenly floating in the grandmother of middle of nowheres, with no idea how to move, no idea how to even flail properly without sending himself careening towards the sun. There was nothing for him to grab a hold onto except America, and America had just- - -

America had just grabbed his shoulder, as awkwardly as can be expected from doing so in a hulking, bulky space suit, but a corner of his mind also suggested that the touch was tender, and that was crazy because didn't he just basically told the git off? Then he pulled England closer, and his mind couldn't find proper thoughts and just settled for a hysterical, nonsensical _Are we even supposed to do this when wearing space suits!_

"I knew it," America said, his voice full of exasperation but surprisingly empty of rancour. "You never had 'a change of heart', did you? You never wanted to be up here, but for some idiotic reason, you're here because I asked you to. I never thought you'd be so afraid of me." He sighed again. "And you're here, before _this_ sight, and that's all you can think of? You're such a _horrible_ person, England."

Indignation flared, and he had to clamped down what he had to say to that, and instead muttered, "Then let me back in, you git. Don't let my horribleness spoil your view."

Instead of shoving him back in the shuttle or just plain letting go, however, America just seemed to pull him in closer.

"That's not what I meant," he said.

_Then what the hell did you mean_, England wanted to ask, but the words died on his lips because America had never sounded like this. He never sounded so desperate and tired and determined at the same time, and he didn't know what to say because he'd never dealt with America being like this before.

After a while, the crack of America's radio came through his headset again, and the sound of it made him wish they'd been talking face to face, where he could catch every syllable and every flutters in his voice, and not through this electromagnetic contraption.

"I figured I should tell you this," America breathed. "When I said 'promise', it's not about the BNSC."

"It's...not?" England found himself asking dazedly. What was America talking about, and what other promise could it be if not the one with those bloody gits?

"It's not," America confirmed. His voice shook a little, but the determination, the desperation, stayed on. "The only promise I ever talked about, England, was the one with you."

For a few seconds, everything else ceased to exist. The shuttle, the blackness, the immense blue, they all seemed to fade away to the rush of words and why's and how's until only America and his nonsensical babbling remained. England something stirring in the back of his chest that he didn't dare look at because it might as well be hope, and what could he do with a hope mistakenly freed?

"What," he heard himself croaking, and America probably thought it was enormously stupid because he sighed again.

"I'm not surprised you don't remember, you're a bit of a bastard about remembering promises," he said. "This was on the same day you told me you'd give me a frigate of my own and we could go sailing together, and I know how well that turned out. But I'm a hero, so I'm not going to forget _my_ promises." It should be impossible to feel anything through the suit, but there was something on his shoulder that felt strangely like a squeeze. "We were out late on the hills, the ones overlooking the sea. I don't even know if you still remember those. We were looking at the stars."

And of course England remembered, now. They were looking at the summer stars, twinkling brightly in the cloudless sky. The grass was wet and soft under his back and America's hand had been warm in his. He was telling stories.

"I didn't know a lot of things back then, so you always seemed like the smartest person in the world to me and I'd ask you for stories. That day, I was asking you for the names of stars, and why we have the Milky Way and other things along those lines."

Tell me the story behind that one, England, America had said, tugging on his sleeves.

He smiled and told him that one belonged to Ursa Major, and she was a mother cursed by the gods to forever look for her son, Ursa Minor, the little bear. He almost killed her, but it was a mistake and so the gods took pity and put them among the stars.

America had sniffed a little and said that was too sad, and the bear must miss his mother terribly because he really missed England, too.

England tousled his hair and said, the next time I come I'll give you a ship, and we can sail home together.

"I'm surprised you seem to be somewhat...unreceptive about space," America snorted. "You certainly never seemed apprehensive to any kind of exploration. Wasn't it you who kept bringing stories to me when I was young? Anyway, I asked you what the Milky Way was and you didn't know, so I figured, _that_ would be it."

Tell me the story behind the Milky Way, England, America tugged his sleeves. It was late in the night and the grass was heavy with dew.

They say it's Hera's milk spilling across the sky, England answered. But nobody knows what it is. They look like stars, but maybe they aren't for all we know. It's one of the mysteries of God.

Well, America said sleepily. Well, we'll go there someday then. I'll learn how to fly right through Taurus and Scorpius and Orion and I'll take you with me, England. I'll take you someday. We'll have tea with Cassiopeia and free Andromeda and see the Milky Way.

When you grow up, England said. He was getting a little sleepy, too.

When I grow up. Promise?

Promise.

"And so I made that promise to take you to the stars and it's really stupid, but a hero does not forget his promises," America said in a tone of complete and total embarrassment. He couldn't sound more embarrassed if somebody discovered he was wearing Canadian underpants. "Then the BNSC came. And it's nearing retirement for the shuttle and we won't get to fly around with any kind of certainty for some time after this, so I thought it was a good chance. A last chance." He looked at England dubiously. "Um. England. Are you even listening to what I said?"

England chuckled. He was surprised at the sound of it, and at the smile that must be spreading across his face. A familiar but thought forgotten kind of smile.. "I am, America. You were practically talking in your sleep, I didn't know you even remember that."

"That's my line, you know," America sulked. And yes, 'sulk' was the word for it, wasn't it?

Perhaps 'sulk' had always been the word.

"What about that time you flew my airplane right through the barn and tried to chase down the escaping geese?" he asked. That stirring at that back of his chest fluttered. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it _could_ be hope. Maybe, maybe America's whims were neither whims nor boasts, but something else entirely...

"I did say I'd take you flying with the birds sometimes," America mumbled. His determination seemed to have been chipped away by embarrassment, and England couldn't help but feel his smile getting wider.

"And the time you hijacked my car and went on crazy drives through the countryside?"

"You said you'd show me what actual English villages looked like. I was curious. And I kinda needed a guide who actually has a British driver's license."

"And the time you kidnapped France, tied him naked to the lamppost in Trafalgar Square and planted my flag on his arse?"

"That was- - -hey! I didn't do that!" America cried, sounding absolutely scandalized. He only seemed to be placated somewhat by England's laughter.

"You are a horrible person, you know that?" he muttered. And England thanked the space suits a little bit, because without them he might be leaning into America's shoulders out of sheer relief and surprise and, perhaps, happiness. And who knew what that would cause.

He settled on saying, "I know. Sorry, America, I was a stupid git, wasn't I?"

America snorted. "Glad you figured that out at last."

The blue world below him suddenly didn't seem so apathetic, after all.

They stayed like that for some time, America's hand on England's shoulder, blue before and emptiness behind. England was still reeling from all the emotions went tumbling through his mind, and he really didn't know what else to do but stay here and watch the world turn in companionable silence. He didn't know what America was thinking and didn't want to know. The crew may have finished moving the space racket, but he didn't care. What he knew was he needed to savour this moment, this warm little quietness against the greatest solitude, as long as it would last.

And then America, being the absolute git that he was, just had to go ahead and break it.

"Um," he said, more like Canada than himself. "So. Are you a little bit more interested in this space exploration thing now?"

England frowned. Was this about those BNSC sods after all? "Does it matter?"

"Yes!" America nearly shouted. "Um. I mean. It's not like that. I just..."

"Please do not mangle my language any further, America. Any worse and you would be communicating on the same level as apes."

"You're not making this easier," he muttered. "Uh. Well, I told you this is one of the last flights the shuttles will be making, right? We're retiring them in a few years. Possibly next year, even. And there's a replacement program for it."

"Yes, you told me. Or rather, your documents did," England replied, remembering the mentions of the Orion project scattered in America's briefcase.

America sounded somewhere between relieved and miserable as he said, "Yes, well. We're shooting for the moon this time, and then we'll go to Mars. And- - -oh, damn it all." England was a bit startled because America did not normally swear. "We're going to Mars, England. And your interest matters to me because if you're able to get a decent program running on by that time, I want to ask- - -I want to ask, dammit, would you like a joint colony?"

England inhaled sharply. Was America really asking him this? "You're insane."

"I am," America admitted. "It- - -it may not be official and everything, but I'm pretty sure that if we're cooperating with ESA- - -which we should- - -our astronauts would be a lot happier to work with yours-if you actually train some-than the Russians or something like that though we'd have to work with them too. And it's not for old times' sake or anything like that, I just- - -"

"Calm down," England sighed. "Stop going a mile a minute. What did I tell you about opening your mouth the second I shut mine?"

America was quiet for a very short moment, then he laughed. "Sorry. So are you on, then?"

"I can't make any promises, but I'll think about it," he said, not knowing what else to say. Did he want to? Was America crazy? Was England? And what the hell was _this_ one about, anyway?

Then he noticed a little darkening on the boy's face which, considering it was seen through the shaded helmet, was probably a really fucking big darkening.

"Are you blushing, America," England said, not sure if his eyes were deceiving him. He could hear the sound of America inhaling sharply. (Really, what were these radios made of?)

And then America nodded.

Feeling quite incredulous, he continued. "Would this happen to have anything to do with me mentioning your mouth and mine?"

Another nod.

Incredulous turned to hysterical, and hysterical turned to disbelief, and disbelief finally turned into _Ah, so that is what it is after all_. That couldn't possibly be the reason. America couldn't possibly be thinking of him like that. And he couldn't possibly be feeling like he was drunk and delirious, and this couldn't probably hold any answers. But it did. And it was.

Delirium could make any man mad. And delirium, after two hundred years, probably did more than its share. That was likely the reason why he did what he did next.

Using America's arm as an anchor, he propelled himself closer until their helmets were inches apart. And purred.

"Well," he said. "Let it not be said that I have never been interested in zero-gravity sex."

England had expected to get a satisfying reaction from America : further blushing, stammering, or returning the favor would do. He was grinning, in fact, as America's mouth opened in what might be a- - - -

A thoroughly startled choke sounded over the radio.

A choke that came from neither of them.

Feelings of horror and utter mortification crept into England's stomach and threatened to sink down his spleen as he realized, _completely_ belatedly, what that choke was likely to be. And yea verily, when he looked up at America's face with eyes wide open, the expression he saw there was...a smirk.

"Sorry," America said, still smirking. "But come on, England. You don't seriously think there's such a thing as complete radio silence in space, do you? Really, what would we do if we burst into balls of fire and he isn't listening in?"

"You told him," England said. Horror had set up camp in his spleen and was doing wild, slinky dances with utter mortification. "You told him, you exhibitionist git- - -"

"I just thought the commander would like to know how he's shaping history. How am I supposed to know your mind is that deep in the gutter?" America said, then grinned even wider. "I do like your mind, though. Would it care for a demonstration sometime?"

His cheeks and ears were burning, America was smirking, that idiot commander was blathering something on the radio. And it was all England could do not to punch America straight into the blazing sun.

.

* * *

**Epilogue**

The sun was setting on the yacht by the time they were out on the open seas, casting violet shadows across the deck and turning the sails red. It turned the dirty blonde of England's hair the color of wheat, and as he leaned down to whisper, it was in that soft, tender voice he used when he thought nobody could really hear it.

"America, wake up. It's almost time for dinner."

America had never been sleeping in the first place, but he complied with England's assumption by blinking owlishly and adjusting his glasses, stretched his legs like they were cramped from lying for too many hours in the sun.

"Hi, England," he muttered. "Is it time for the daily torture already?"

The soft, wondering look that must have been on England's face had already melted away the moment he opened his eyes, replaced by a frown that represented their century-long argument on the quality of food. That didn't stay for too long either, however, before it turned into daring little grin accompanied by a small, contented chuckle.

"You don't have to eat it if you don't want to," he stated, eyes twinkling. "But I hope you've brought a fishing pole, because there's nothing on this boat but _my_ food and _my_ kitchen. So you'd better figure out how to eat the bloody fish raw, too."

"I could lure in seagulls with some bread. They wouldn't know it's poison," America murmured, taking England's hand and putting it against his cheek. He wondered how much time it would take before he stopped realizing, in all these dazed little moments, how much he had missed this and if it would ever stop being strange and intoxicating. He wondered if he wanted it to do that at all, and if this was ever the kind of happiness England wanted.

England laughed and pulled his hand away, taking a step back onto the deck and casting long shadows in the sunset.

"We're too far from the shore for that, you retard. Now get up and help me fix the sails so we don't get blown off into the fucking Atlantic, and then we'll have dinner."

He made some half-hearted gestures of protest, then got up from his cot and followed his old caretaker to the mast where he was already fiddling with some ropes. England looked like he was truly in his element, with the sea and the rollicking motion of the boat. He was more relaxed, his smiles seemed to come easier and they sometimes contained a shade of apologetic embarrassment, like he was saying : _I'm sorry I forgot about all this, but I'm showing you right now, I'm showing you my old little secret, I'm absurdly happy we're finally doing all _this _and I hope you are, too._

England had insisted that he should keep his part of the old bargain, too, even if the era had came and gone and the people they once were no longer existed except in their memories. Compared to the grandeur of seventy-four gun flagships England promised him a long time ago, this little yacht seemed so diminished and ordinary, but perhaps that was the kind of happiness England wanted. America never spare two moment's thoughts to the proposal, and he was glad that he didn't.

The sun had already set by the time they were done with the sails, America being somewhat clumsy with them and England snickering at him over it, so when they took a step back to admire their work it was no longer the glowing sunset that framed England's face, but a backdrop of glittering stars.

England noticed, too. He snorted.

"Haven't seen stars like that for a while. Not since the blitz, and I wasn't looking at them back then," he said, to no one in particular. "Reminds you of old times, eh?"

"Yeah, they do," America said, putting his arms around England's shoulders. There was no bulky suit between them now; he could feel the warmth of the skin under his clothes, the throb of his blood vessels. England reached up to touch his cheeks again. His hands were warm, too.

"So tell me, America," he said. "Which of these stars were the ones I told you about? Cassiopeia and Andromeda? I seem to have forgotten things."

America would have snorted at that utter bullshit if he didn't know it was one of England's obscure gestures of reconciliation. So he only held England a little tighter and looked up at the tapestry above them, the one that changed very little in the two hundred years since a young man held hands with a little boy and told him the names of stars.

"That one is the principal star of Ursa Minor," he whispered. "From the top of the mast. The second one to the right."

* * *

FIN

Critiques? Comments? Please feel free to tell me what you think, it doesn't even have to be constructive! I haven't written anything this long for quite a while, and your comments would mean a great deal to me.

**Notes**  
The mission England and America are going on is the STS-128 mission scheduled for Aug 7, 2009, as part of the last sequence of shuttle launches. Its goal is to transport the racks to the ISS via the _Leonardo_, which is the Multi-Purpose Logistics Module used to transport the LMC in. Seven astronauts are presented in the flight, whose brief biographies can be found on the internet, and two of whose positions I pilfered for the use of this fic : Mr. Fuglesang (ESA) and Mr. Olivas (NASA). The rest, except the pilot, are mentioned at some point in the fic without their names. My apologies to them, and I wish the best for theirs and NASA's future efforts.

The BNSC (British National Space Centre) does not play the exact same role as NASA. It doesn't run programs, from what I understand, and mainly coordinate efforts between the British government and ESA. The British space industry is not as backwards as this fic may lead you to believe, either, as it has a strong lead in small satellites, independent rocket designs and a good deal of research on space modules and materials, but human space exploration is indeed a little wanting. This may change : on May 21st, 2009, the ESA announced Mr. Timothy Peake as Britain's first real astronaut (previous Britons had to hold dual U.S. citizenships), who may go to the moon at some point in ESA's programs.

For those interested in the layout of the shuttle, a floor plan can be found at (.) and explanations of the design at (.) and life in space in general at (.). I try to be find a nice balance between accuracy/readability, and I hope I have achieved this, and that you would accept my apologies for any mistakes made.

The Orion Project, NASA's replacement for its shuttle program, is supposedly a more high-tech replay of the Apollo Program. There is likely to be less big, clunky tech and more precision, of course, but the vehicle concept is very much the same. We'll see how it goes.

The principal star of Ursa Minor is Polaris, the North Star. With England's naval background, it's kind of obvious how much of a bullshit that one was...but hey, he doesn't go fluffy on us very often?

And yes, there have been reports that the British made insinuations of zero-gravity sex before. Oh, England, you pervert.

Thank you, NASA, for a great dream, and here's to hoping we would one day reach the stars!

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